


An Armada To Sail On

by Ariel_Tempest



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Age Difference, Art Inspiring Art, Awkwardness, Banter, Choose Your Own Ending, Choose your romance, Clocks, Cuddles, Dancing, Dark Past, Fluff, Gift Fic, Honeymoon, Internalized Homophobia, Island of the Gays, Journalism, Kit Norridge, M/M, Multiple Endings, Peter Fitzroy, Printing, Proposals, Sleep Deprivation, Terrance Gordon, Unexpected Proposals, Weddings, sexy painting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:02:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariel_Tempest/pseuds/Ariel_Tempest
Summary: Choose your own Thomas romance, Island of the Gays style. Why sail one ship when you can sail them all?
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Original Male Character(s), Thomas Barrow/Peter Pelham, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Comments: 56
Kudos: 106





	1. Richard Ellis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/gifts).
  * Inspired by [But Among Our Own Selves We'll Be Free, or, Thomas and the Island of the Gays](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070534) by [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324). 



> This is a series of various proposal/wedded bliss scenes between Thomas and various other members of the island community. So far I have four of them, but there could be more, if inspiration hits. Tags and ships will be updated as I go. 
> 
> Many thanks to Alex51324 for the entertainment and the inspiration.

Weddings, Thomas concluded, at least weddings in villages on private islands, were for getting drunk and dancing until you were dizzy with anyone who asked you. At least that was his justification for being very, very drunk, and half hanging off one of the island’s newer inhabitants. Admittedly his partner, whose name was Chris something or other, was the only person who had asked. If he were sober, he might be offended by the lack of attention. As it was, he was simply remembering how much he ruddy liked dancing; realizing how much nicer it was to dance with another bloke than whichever girl needed a partner; and coming to the very accurate conclusion that it was impossible to tango properly when you couldn’t remember which foot was your left one or who was leading. At least he thought one of them was supposed to be leading. Did someone lead in the tango?

Fortunately Chris didn’t mind having his feet stepped all over. He also didn’t seem to mind Thomas clinging to him to stay upright. Theo, on the other hand, seemed to mind some part of it because Thomas was suddenly aware of his presence, just to their right. He cleared his throat. “While I’m glad you two are enjoying yourselves, I think you might want to sober up a bit before you dance anymore.”

“What, we aren’t doing anything wrong,” Chris frowned, refusing to release Thomas’s waist. “We’re just dancing.”

“Right,” Thomas agreed, although he rested his head on Chris’s shoulder to keep the room from spinning quite so much. “I like dancing.”

Theo gave him a very stern look. It was the sort of look his Mum had given him as a kid when it was time for bed and he’d been clearly exhausted, so she hadn’t believe him when he’d said he wasn’t tired. Definitely that sort of a look. “I’m very glad to hear it and it’s nice that you’re having a good time. However, you’re also about to trip each other and I’d rather the event not end with us asking Dr. Hartley to set your broken neck. You can dance more later, but for now you need to sober up before you fall over.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “I will not fall over,” he insisted, pushing away from Chris to demonstrate how stable he was on his feet. It would have gone better if he’d not immediately toppled over backwards into someone. Fortunately the someone seemed to be expecting him, because he found himself caught from behind by a pair of strong, sober arms. He blinked, rather confused by the turn of events.

“Er,” Chris said intelligently, then gave Theo a somewhat abashed look. “Well. _I_ was just dancing at any rate.”

Theo sighed and placed a hand on Chris’s arm. “Look, Chris, let’s get you some punch, assuming Tully hasn’t gotten to it, and let Thomas get some air, and then we can think about dancing some more.” Looking behind Thomas, who was trying to get his feet under him, he said, “Would you take Thomas outside for a bit? Make sure he doesn’t fall into a bush or something.”

“I’m not that drunk!” Thomas protested, once more trying to stand straight. If he concentrated, he could do it. “There, see?”

“In which case, I’ll just be keeping you company,” a voice said in his ear.

He turned to discover his rescuer was Richard Ellis, who he then wound up grabbing hold of as he’d turned a bit too quickly and overbalanced. Richard’s arms caught his waist and after a moment while he contemplated the wisdom of letting go of the other man, Thomas concluded, “I suppose a bit of air couldn’t hurt. And company’s always nice.”

“It is,” Richard agreed, helping him get his feet again, and then offering his arm for support. “And there’s lots of air, so we don’t need to rush out before it’s gone.”

Thomas gave him a sideways glance. He suspected the other man was laughing at him. Unfortunately the other man was also starting, rather slowly, for the door, so Thomas had to walk if he didn’t want to wind up being dragged. Careful of where he put his feet, Thomas let Richard lead him out of the parish hall. Outside the sun had set hours ago and a spring breeze had cropped up, so the air was brisk. Thomas immediately sobered a bit. “Alright, that is bracing,” he noted, letting go of Richard and finding a patch of wall to lean against. He dug in his pockets and came up with his cigarettes and lighter. After he’d managed to fish a cigarette out and get it lit, blowing his first stream of smoke into the air, he noted, “It really was nice of Sam and Alfie to get married, so we could have this party. It’s been a long time since I danced at all.”

“It’s fun,” Richard agreed. “Although I think Tully’s having more fun than anyone, seeing how much alcohol he can get in all of us.”

Thomas laughed at that one. “Probably making up for Henry and Miles. Those two might as well have eloped.” There had been a ceremony, of course, followed by a discreet wedding breakfast and then the two of them had packed off for a honeymoon at the cabin. They’d come back with merry tales of shooting things and fish getting away. It wasn’t Thomas’s idea of romance, but he supposed it was their wedding. Sam and Alfie, being working class lads, and probably a bit tired of behaving what with all the mainland building crews that had been all over the island for what seemed like months, were making a much better to do of it. 

“Yes, well, not everyone can convince Tully to give up half of his whiskey to the cause.”

“Don’t think it’s half. Pretty sure he has an underground cave someplace full of the stuff, just in case the North sea freezes over and he can’t get anymore.” The idea of Tully smuggling emergency rations of alcohol into some seaside cave like an old pirate made Thomas chuckle. Jessop would have to keep an eye on the pub while he did it, so no one would get suspicious. “We should make a rule,” he announced, changing topics abruptly. “Every wedding must have dancing. It’s not fair that we don’t get to dance more.”

“Want every opportunity to step on Mr. Webster’s feet, do we?” Richard asked, giving him a smile. There was something off about that smile. It didn’t reach his eyes the way it should.

Thomas frowned, trying to puzzle through what was off. “Webster? You mean Chris?” He took another drag and shrugged. “Not really, he’s just the one who asked me. The only one who asked. All night long.” He was starting to get sober enough for that to be irritating. He was a good dancer, especially when he was sober, and certain people were always making it sound like he had a gaggle of men after him. So why hadn’t anyone else asked?

“Well, he did scoop you up before anyone else really got the chance, and he hasn’t let you go,” Richard pointed out.

Thomas just glared at him. “Anyone could have cut in, if they really wanted. Faint heart never won Thomas Barrow.”

The observation earned him an arched eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You do that.” Thomas gave a sharp nod, then looked out into the darkness. It was a lovely night. The parish hall didn’t have much of a view, but it was up high enough that you could catch glimpses of the ocean. The moon was near full, surrounded by stars, and reflected in the water. “When I get married, there will be dancing.”

Richard gave him another of those sideways glances. “Honestly, we’ve all been a bit surprised you haven’t yet. Gotten married, that is.”

Thomas frowned again. “Why would I have? No one’s asked, have they?” There was that irritation again. “Really, every time the subject comes up, people make it sound like I’m spoiled for a choice, but I’ve not seen any indication of it.”

This time the look Richard gave him could only be described as ‘odd’. Thomas didn’t know what to make of it at all. “Well, perhaps since you are, as you said, spoiled for a choice, they’re waiting for you to make a move.”

Thomas scoffed. Syl would have been proud of that scoff. “The last time I made a first move I wound up in the bloody Clinic, didn’t I? And before that I had me job threatened.” He frowned, trying to remember if there had ever been a time he’d made a first move and had it not end in disaster. The answer was not really. He and Phillip had sort of skirted around each other a bit, at the start, but Phillip had the advantage of power and so had taken the first really big step. He sighed. “I can’t even tell you who the options are, honestly. Who’s actually interested and who’s just a friend. The only time anyone showed a _real_ interest was when some bloke offered to walk me home from Church back when I’d first gotten here and nothing felt real yet. I’ve not gotten a nibble from that quarter since.” His tone was pitched to imply that it had been very unfair of Richard to not let him get settled and learn the rules of courtship before asking him to take such an important romantic step. He went to take a drag, only to discover the cigarette had burnt out. He sighed and dropped it.

“To be fair, you immediately took up with Kit,” Richard countered, although he sounded more curious than defensive.

“I didn’t take up with Kit!” Thomas protested. “I agreed to go to a concert with him, that was all. And RAMC drinks with Peter was simply getting to know the locals. I hadn’t realized yet, back then, that I couldn’t say ‘good morning’ to a bloke here without it being the sign of an understanding between us.” Old memories dredged themselves up, making the irritation worse. It was as if suddenly everything was his fault again, just when he thought he’d settled into village life enough that he could be free of that.

Richard seemed to realize he was making things worse. “Alright, so maybe you aren’t the only one who can’t read a situation.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“Shouldn’t think I was,” Thomas huffed, crossing his arms and glaring up at the moon. “Not with this many people about.”

“Perhaps I should offer to walk you home from Church again some time.” Richard’s voice took on a soft, almost teasing tone.

Thomas was having none of it. He wasn’t going to be calmed down that easily. “Perhaps you should.”

There was a moment of silence, then Richard suggested, “Then again, it’s been long enough, perhaps I should skip that part and just ask you to marry me.”

“Perhaps you - “ Thomas was half way through the retort when he realized what the other man had just said. He blinked. Twice. Then he turned to look at Richard, tilting his head and squinting at the other man, trying to judge if he was serious or not. When Richard reached out and smoothed a hand along his cheek, Thomas figured he must be. “Should wait until I’m sober to do that. Wouldn’t want people saying I’d only said ‘yes’ ‘cause I was drunk.”

Richard considered that for a moment, or pretended to. He had a very smug smile. “Perhaps I should,” he allowed. “In the meantime, could I walk you home from Church on Sunday?”

“You could,” Thomas grinned back, ducking his head, certain he was blushing.

“And when we go back inside, might I have a dance?”

“Can have all of them, if you’d like.”


	2. Peter Fitzroy

Thomas woke to something soft tickling his nose. At first he thought it was a feather, but then his mind slowly registered that his arms were wrapped around a body and that the soft substance was, more than likely, hair. Cracking his eyes open, he determined that yes, this was the case, at which point he smiled, closed his eyes again, and contentedly buried his face in the sandy curls.

“Are you awake, love?” 

“No,” Thomas denied, running his hands down the other man’s spine. “No, I’m dreaming and it’s a very nice dream where I’ve married the sweetest man on the island, so do let me get on with it, hm?” 

His insistence earned him a laugh and a kiss on the shoulder. “What do you know, I’m having a similar dream. Perhaps we could dream together?”

“I like that idea.” Giving up, Thomas opened his eyes and pulled back far enough to meet his husband’s eyes and smile. “Would be a great way to spend the first day of the honeymoon, don’t you think? Curled up in bed, dreaming together.”

Peter gave him the most innocent smile imaginable. “I can think of a few things we could do in bed that aren’t dreaming.”

Thomas dissolved into laughter at that one. “Oh, now really, Mr. Fitzroy! Such a suggestion!” One he’d gotten his laughter under control, he settled into a smirk. “And to think, certain parties were suggesting that our love life would be dull because you were too innocent and virtuous!”

“Certain parties clearly don’t know me very well. I should hope after last night, you’d know better.”

“Mmm, I may need you to remind me.”

“I can do that,” Peter grinned, before pulling him down into a kiss. It was a particularly warm summer, for Scotland at least, so the two of them hadn’t bothered with pyjamas the night before. Now that seemed like fortuitous foresight on their part…at least it did until there was a rather heavy knock on the door.

“Who the hell?” Thomas scowled, pulling away and looking in the general direction of the sound. Bill had volunteered to watch the shop for Peter while the two of them had their ‘honeymoon’, as they were calling three-days-of-nothing-to-do-except-canoodle, so it couldn’t have been someone wanting to buy something. Unless the cash register was acting up? But Thomas had cleaned it three days ago specifically to prevent that.

“Oh hell, is that the time?” Peter asked, looking past Thomas to the alarm clock sitting next to the bed. “I nearly forgot…” With no indication of what he forgot, he scrambled over Thomas and, much to the other man’s dismay, out of bed.

“I…forgot what?” Thomas frowned, more than a little petulant about the sudden lack of cuddling. He watched Peter pull a pair of boxer shorts out of the chest of drawers. The underwear had been delivered to Eddie by mistake, but rather than return them the other man had given them to Peter in hopes they’d be easier to manage one handed than the normal sort. Thomas wasn’t clear if they were or not, but there was admittedly some amusement value to watching Peter hop around, trying to pull them on standing up. 

“I have a delivery this morning. Very important. Have to take it in person,” he explained as he got his second leg into the shorts. Then he grabbed out an undershirt and started wiggling his way into that. “You don’t have to get up, though. Just…just stay here and be cozy.”

“What’s so important it can’t wait until after our honey moon?” There was something fundamentally wrong with the very idea of Peter working, even briefly, on their first day as a married couple. He was too sweet and too romantic for that. After all, when he’d decided to propose he’d waited for a nice day, had Tully guard the boat from all other comers, packed up a picnic lunch, and took Thomas to the sheltered cove for a private picnic. It was Thomas himself who’d somewhat spoiled things by deciding it was now-or-never and proposing over the deviled eggs before Peter could get around to it. (Peter’s planned proposal involved getting down on one knee and a bottle of champagne. Far superior.) Unless marriage had changed him far faster than Thomas would have believed possible, there was no way he’d be this inconsiderate.

“You’ll see,” Peter informed him, grabbing his dressing gown from it’s hook. Then he bounced. “I’ll show you later, when you’re up, but for now you just stay right here,” he walked over, pushed Thomas back in bed, pulled the covers up and gave him a kiss. “And relax. Enjoy yourself.” He straightened, bouncing again as he did, and headed for the door.

How Thomas was supposed to enjoy himself alone in bed on the first morning of his honeymoon, he didn’t know. Normally the suggestion would have simply confused him. The bouncing, on the other hand, made him suspicious. Narrowing his eyes he asked, “Peter? What are you up to?”

“Nothing!” Peter assured him, grinning broadly. With one last bounce, he vanished from the bedroom.

Thomas sighed and snuggled back into the mattress. Tomorrow he was going to insist they have a lie-in and cuddle. 

There was the sound of feet tramping up the staircase to the flat, accompanied by voices. He frowned at that. He’d assumed that whatever the delivery was would be made to the shop. Instead it sounded like half of the island was getting to see Peter in his dressing robe while Thomas was locked away in the bedroom. Listening carefully, he picked out Greggs, and Tall Dave - at least he thought it was Tall Dave - and Eddie. Tully was impossible to miss, barking orders like “Mind the fucking doorway!” and “Don’t fucking drop that!” Don’t drop what? Had Peter gotten a crate of china? Furniture? Since he’d already been living in the flat, the two of them had decided they didn’t need anything more than what was already there. Admittedly, Thomas would have liked a few more clocks, but there was the alarm clock and a mantle clock, so that would do. Peter, of course, had asked him a million times if he wouldn’t rather take one of the cottages, but since all he’d have done with the extra space was fill it with clocks, he’d insisted the flat was perfectly sufficient.

There was a solid thudding noise from the parlour, as if someone was setting something rather heavy down, followed by what sounded like people shifting the sofa or possibly the table.

Finally, unable to stand it anymore, Thomas sat up, threw off the covers, and heaved himself out of bed. Maybe he wasn’t allowed out of the room, but he was damned if he was simply going to lie there while a ‘delivery’ was made to his new home. He could at least get dressed. Keeping an ear on the ruckus in the other room, he donned his own, more traditional underwear. After some consideration, he decided to stop there and simply toss on his dressing robe. That way, when Peter was done with whatever it was he was doing, they’d be even. As dressed as he was going to be, he perched on the edge of the bed and gave the door a very skeptical look.

Eventually the noise in the other room died down. The sound of feet tramped away, back down the staircase. There was a few minutes silence, then an almost scampering sound and the bedroom door opened, allowing Peter to pop inside. He was grinning from ear to ear.

Thomas arched an eyebrow at him. “Am I allowed out now, Mum?”

“Yes.” Peter bounced. With a decided air of trepidation, Thomas stood and made to walk past his husband and out of the bedroom. To his surprise, Peter grabbed his arm as he headed past. “Wait,” he insisted, with the air of someone who’s just been hit by inspiration. He stepped behind Thomas and put his hand over Thomas’s eyes. “Alright, now go.”

“Go how?” Thomas demanded. “I can’t see anything!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let you crash. Just go sort of slowly so I can keep balance.”

Feeling like an absolute boob, Thomas sort of shuffled through the doorway. Peter steered him as best he could, although it was difficult without a second arm. As it was, there was only pressure from his shoulder to rely on for direction. “Okay, we’re over the threshold, so in the parlour now. Let’s go forward a few feet…a bit more…yes, that’s good, about there. Now, turn to the left.”

Obediently, Thomas spun slowly on his heels so he was facing the proper direction. The hand fell away from his eyes and he looked across the room at…

The grandfather clock that he’d fixed for Greggs years ago.

He stared. “You bought it?” He took an involuntary step forward, reaching out as if he could touch the case despite the distance between him and the clock. Now he really did feel like he was dreaming.

“Well, mostly,” Peter confessed, stepping up behind him again and resting his chin on his shoulder, his arm wrapping around his waist. “I paid part in cash and part in credit that he’s still working through, but yeah. I bought it. I know we said no more furniture, but I wanted something in the flat that represented you and I know how much you love it. Couldn’t figure out how to sneak it into the flat though.”

Thomas’s mouth worked trying to form words, but all he could manage was a breathless little laugh. He blinked against the prickling in his eyes and wrapped an arm around Peter, pulling the other man close. “You are the best husband in the world,” he finally managed, planting a kiss in Peter’s curls.

“Second best.”

“The absolute best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boxer shorts were an invention of the '20s, although from what I can tell they did not catch on quickly.


	3. Kit Norridge

Gordon had a session with Dr. R, so Thomas walked himself down to the village and along high street to Beacon Printing. He would be forever grateful to Lord Hexham for suggesting they take one of the newly constructed buildings. It was warmer, in better repair, far less dusty, and Kit had immediately moved into the flat above it. Admittedly, this had been something of a surprise to Thomas who hadn’t expected an Honourable, even one who wanted to be independent of his family, to settle for anything less than a cottage. It did mean, though, that if they were up all hours doing a last minute run they could take lie downs in shifts. It would, of course, have been even better if he could just stay at the flat until morning rather than trekking back up to the Main House, but there were appearances to think of. 

If nothing else, he could only imagine what Syl would say about his spending the night. The two of them might not be enemies anymore, but they weren’t exactly friends either, and Thomas didn’t trust the other man not to make a scene if he got his nose out of joint.

As he walked, he ran through a list of things that needed doing. Father Timothy had taken to requesting Orders of Service for Sunday service, and the theater group had a new play they were putting on. They wanted playbills, as per usual, but there had also been talk of advertisements. Thomas found the idea pointless since the entire village already knew about it, but if they were willing to pay, he was willing to try and come up with something. Lord Hexham wanted an advert for an upcoming gallery showing at the library, but he wanted it to feature a print made of something he had painted or sketched, whichever it was. That, in turn, depended on Bill Thorn’s ability to make a printing block of it. In short, they were still hammering out the details.

Thomas let himself into the print shop. He was somewhat surprised to find Kit there. He was even more surprised to find the other man sprawled out in a chair next to the banked stove, fast asleep. They had, admittedly, been up until nearly dawn working on that week’s edition, but he’d expected Kit to go upstairs and actually go to bed afterward. He would have supposed the other man had simply sat down for a moment and fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion, but the layout table was littered with pages that had not been there when Thomas had left. 

After some debate over whether to wake Kit or find out what the other man had been printing, Thomas finally settled on ‘neither’ and put the kettle on. Then, figuring the proofs were either ideas for new layouts or for the theater adverts or something similar, he went over and gently shook Kit’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey, wake up. You’re gonna put a crick in your neck.”

At first, Kit simply tried to shift away from him in his sleep. That, of course, unbalanced the chair which tried to tip over on him. Thomas managed to grab the back and keep him upright, but the motion, not to mention Thomas’s cry of alarm, served to wake him. “Nrgh,” he said, very intelligibly, followed by “Ow” as he tried to move his head.

“Told you you were going to put a crick in your neck.”

Kit blinked up at him, pressing a hand to the base of his skull and trying to move his head very, very slowly. “Could you have told me that before I fell asleep?”

Well that was a pointless question. “Given that I wasn’t here, not so much,” Thomas replied. Then he jerked his head to table. “Of course, if you’d told me you planned on staying up until noon tinkering, I’d have told you to just go to bed. What were you working on, anyway?” Turning, Thomas walked over, intent on examining the other man’s work.

“Ah, something private!” Kit hurried to explain. When Thomas turned and arched an eyebrow at him, he hesitated, blushing slightly. “That’s why I stayed up, actually. I wanted to make certain no one was around.” 

“Alright,” Thomas shrugged, starting to move back toward the kettle. “If it’s that important I won’t pry.” Since the water was a good ways from boiling, he helped himself to some biscuits. Behind him, he could hear Kit stand and start shuffling the papers together. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious what the other man was about. Kit was still the slowest of the staff when it came to setting type, so to have put together presumably multiple chases, not to mention making test prints of them all would indicate that whatever the project it was rather important. Thomas couldn’t think of anything on the island that could be so important that it would warrant staying up all hours to keep the secret. A personal commission for one of the other villagers, perhaps? Some sort of present from someone to his husband that he wanted kept under the carpet?

The shuffling stopped and Kit cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said in the most nervous tone he could muster. “Perhaps you could look them over and tell me what you think? I’ve got the copy down, I think, but I’m having difficulty deciding on the decorations.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Still, Thomas figured, if he wanted in on the secret, this was the best way. “Alright.” He polished off his biscuit and reached for the papers.

Kit handed them over with obvious reluctance. He actually started to pull back at one point.

Beyond curious now, Thomas looked down at the top page. Kit had spelled his message out in the type they used for the headlines, so the message was nice and easy to read. 

****

**Thomas Barrow, will you do me the honour of being my husband?**

It was decorated on either side with one of the standard sets of scroll work. He had obviously put a lot of thought into the phrasing, because the next sheet had the same sentence, only with a different set of scrolls. Bloody waste of paper and ink, really. The third sheet had no flourishes at all, just the type, and the forth… “Kit, what have I said about the cherubs?” Thomas held up the offending page of type, showing off the trumpeting angels to either side of the copy, with a look of extreme irritation. Really, he didn’t even know why they thrown that set out.

“I know,” Kit winced. “I just thought under the circumstances maybe…”

“No.” Thomas threw the sheet over his shoulder and kept riffling through the rest. Kit had tried all of the obvious wingdings, plus a couple Thomas wouldn’t have thought of. For example the light house that Bill Thorn had been commissioned to make a printing block of for the paper’s masthead had been pressed into use on one page. It made no sense, but the extra effort it would have taken to print the light houses and then print the copy separately was something, he supposed. (Bill had made a separate block with the name of the paper on it, so normally they just printed it all at once, with the option of leaving a light house out if they had special reason to.) In the end, though, Thomas found he liked the second one the best. The scroll work was nicely traditional, but not as ostentatious as the other set. He handed the paper to Kit. “I accept this one.”

“Oh good,” Kit smiled, a tight, almost panicked smile. He set the page on the table. “Well then, I’ll just…wait.” He blinked and turned to Thomas as the words sank in. His eyebrows hitched up slightly. It was adorable. “You mean…you would? You will? That is -”

Thomas sighed and reached out to cup the other man’s jaw in his hand. Kit stopped talking, adopting a rather stunned rabbit look as Thomas leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “Yes,” Thomas assured him. “I will marry you. Now, you ridiculous man. Go. To. Bed.”


	4. Peter Pelham

The sofa was probably the most expensive piece of furniture on the island. Centuries old, of course, and reupholstered just before being shipped from the mainland in high quality red velvet. Thomas lounged on it and tried his best not to shiver. Admittedly, there was a fire crackling merrily away in the fire place, but the curtains were pulled all the way back, letting in as much of the thin, winter light as possible, and also a draft. The clock was on the wall behind him, so Thomas couldn’t even tell how long he’d been lying there. It had been long enough that the velvet, at first soft, was starting to get itchy. “Peter, it feels like I’ve been lying here for an eternity. Can I please get up?”

“Not yet,” his husband clucked his tongue, his eyes flickering from the paper before him to the sofa and back. “I’m almost done, I promise.”

“You promised that an hour ago, at least,” Thomas grumbled. There was no answer. He sighed. “Could we at least get a blanket for my legs? I’m lying right in the draft from the window.”

“Your legs are what I’m working on. I could ring for George and have him put more wood on the fire, if you like?”

Thomas tried not to squirm at the idea. The last thing he wanted was for Peter to have to start over. “Right, yes, because I really want the butler to walk in while I’m lying here completely starkers.”

That earned him an amused look. “Now, don’t tell me you’re going to turn prudish on me. After all, he’s going to see the finished painting anyway. What’s wrong with his seeing the model?”

“Peter!” Thomas protested, fairly certain he was blushing. “You do realize my one hesitation over marrying you was the idea of having a servant? Given that I used to be one? And anyway, I can promise you that the butler at Downton Abbey never walked in on Lord Grantham lounging nude on a couch while someone painted him.”

“Yes, well, from what you’ve told me Lord Grantham was not the most devastatingly handsome man in the village, so it’s hardly a fair comparison,” Peter replied primly, going back to his sketch. “And did Lady Grantham paint?”

“Not that I know of.” Thomas gave up. It was no use explaining that even if she had, Carson would have probably gone into terminal shock at the sight of a naked male body. Peter would just point out that George would be far more appreciative of the view. “How did I let you talk me into this again?”

“The same way I convinced you to marry me: flattery,” the other man quipped. 

“I did not marry you because you flattered me.”

The room fell silent except for the sound of Peter’s pencil scratching at the paper. Eventually, without looking up, the other man asked, “Why did you marry me?”

The question caught Thomas completely off guard. If he was honest, he didn’t really know the answer. Not in words. Because Peter had asked? Because he liked the other man? But that would be obvious, wouldn’t it? A thought dawned on him. “It wasn’t for your money.”

Peter paused and smiled at him. “I know that! Don’t tell me you were bothered by those silly rumors.”

“Well, no,” Thomas admitted. “Not as such.” It also went without saying that whoever married Lord Hexham, unless they were also upper class, was going to come under some sort of scrutiny from everyone who didn’t, at least if they were single. Even if the two of them had spent a year staring into each other’s eyes and sighing like a pair of besotted milk maids, someone was bound to whisper about the money. “But I never thought to ask if you were. That is, you didn’t seem like you were.”

“Probably because I wasn’t,” his husband assured him, changing pencils. “Really, love, I’m a Marquess. I’ve spent my life assuming someone was going to marry me for my money, so a few silly rumors that they have done aren’t going to trouble me. And you aren’t the sort, or I’d not have asked you. I was simply wondering why you said yes. I confess, I didn’t quite expect you to.”

“You didn’t?” Thomas might have felt some embarrassment at the creeping memories of a time when money, while not the sole source of attraction, or even the largest one, had at least played a factor in his relationship, but it evaporated at the statement. “Then why did you ask?”

Peter shrugged. “Because I wanted you to say yes, I suppose? I figured you could have half of the men on the island, easily, but, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Worst you could do was say no and go marry Mr. Ellis or Mr. Norridge.”

“Which is what you thought would happen.”

“Which is what I thought would happen.”

Thomas smiled at him. “And that’s why I said yes. You may be a Marquess, but you don’t put on airs. You just happen to be the bloke with the money and the power, and you don’t act like you earned that or that it makes you better than the rest of us. You just use it on what needs doing.”

Peter’s brows drew downward as he chewed that over. “Well, it’s kind of you to say, of course, and I’d hate for you to rethink that opinion of me, but my motives aren’t entirely altruistic you know. There is personal advantage to the money I’ve put into the village.”

“Of course there is,” Thomas shrugged.

“Careful.”

Going stock-still again, Thomas continued as if the other man hadn’t said anything. “Most people do things that benefit them, one way or another. But look, you wanted a restaurant, they told you that wasn’t possible, and rather than die fighting the battle, you settled for what you could get without fuss. Can’t name five toffs I’ve waited table for who would have done that gladly.”

“Admittedly,” Peter allowed. 

“And if you did get your restaurant, it wouldn’t just be for you and Lord Gerald and the handful of other blokes on the island with money from home,” Thomas continued. “Any of us could walk in and expect the same service and quality of food as you.”

To his surprise, Peter actually paused and _thought_ about that. The hesitation was explained, however, when he said, “I would expect certain members of the community to watch their language.”

“Fair enough!” Thomas laughed. “Although I think Gordon and Tully would both rather eat at the pub. No offense.”

“I wouldn’t be the one cooking, so none taken.” With a final flourish, Peter set aside his pencil and stretched. “There we go. You can move now.”

“Thank God.” Curling in on himself to preserve warmth, Thomas watched the other man start sorting his tools back into their places. He had a sort of cloth belt he stored them in, each in their their own, sewn compartment. “Tell me, if you had your choice between a real restaurant and a real hospital, staffed by Dr. Hartley and the RAMC boys, which would you take?”

“The hospital of course,” Peter scoffed, only half paying attention by this point. It seemed a pencil had gotten in the wrong spot and was throwing things off. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d like a restaurant, but a hospital would be so much more useful, not on a day to day, hopefully, but if we ever got a bad case of influenza thorough, for instance, and it would provide work for more people, I should think. In fact,” he paused, turning the whole idea over in his head. “That is a wonderful idea. I’ll talk to Dr. L tomorrow and see if we can’t come up with something.”

Thomas grinned at him. “And that is why I love you. You want things - the library, the restaurant, even the paper - but what you go after are the things that will help everyone. You also don’t leave people out - and don’t tell me that Bill Thorn’s carvings and wood cuttings would be welcome in a single one of the big London galleries!”

“Wood cuttings are an old and distinguished art form,” Peter sniffed. “Only a Philistine would disregard them.”

“Plenty of Philistines in the world,” Thomas countered. “And even more who become Philistines the second someone’s not made it into grammar school.”

“Fair, I suppose.”

“And you didn’t even suggest I stop working for the paper when we got married.”

Peter stood and headed for the sofa, his sketch in his hand. “What would be the point of that? It would hardly benefit the village if the paper were down a journalist, and one of the main reasons I wanted _you_ was your clever writing. Fat lot of good that would do me if you never wrote.” Settling himself next to Thomas, he held up the sketch. “There, what do you think.”

Looking the paper over, Thomas frowned slightly. “My nose doesn’t look like that.”

“The shading isn’t the best, given that it’s only a sketch, but the idea isn’t a perfect likeness. It’s just enough of one that I can get the ground work for the painting done without you having to lie here from dawn to dusk while I work.”

Thomas decided he didn’t care what the nose looked like. “Oh, well then, it’s perfect. Now, can I get dressed?”

“Are you certain you want to?” Peter smirked, setting the sketch carefully out of harm’s way, then pressing himself against Thomas and nuzzling into his husband’s neck. “I know you’re cold, but I can think of other ways to warm up.”

Thomas arched an eyebrow, but didn’t object. “I thought Dr. L said artistic inspiration came from repressing your urges.”

“I’ve found a much better muse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And since I've had no lightning strikes and no one's popped into the comments with an 'oh please let there be ___ pair', that, as they say in the business, is a wrap! At least for now, unless someone else shows up in my head demanding his turn.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Terrance Gordon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to past child abuse.

“’S there any tea?”

Thomas looked up from the type he was setting, startled. He’d expected to have the press room to himself for at least another hour. Even if someone had stopped past, he’d have expected someone with a last minute advertisement he wanted to get in, not Terrance Gordon, fresh back from a camp-out with the RAMC lads. Yet there the printer’s devil was, leaning against the door with mud spattered trousers and an unshaven face, looking hopefully toward the tea pot. “’Fraid not,” Thomas informed him. “But I wouldn’t say no to a cup, if you wanted to put the water on.”

With a sigh and a bit of a grumble, the younger man crossed the room and put the kettle on. 

“How were the grubs?” Thomas asked, eying Gordon surreptitiously. He looked about the way Thomas had always felt after a long march and a night in a tent. The RAMC trips, unlike the ones led by Mr. Braceridge, were purely functional, having grown out of Tully’s monthly emergency training exercises. . Most everyone else, once they returned to civilization, either buggered off to the pub for a drink or the Main House for a good wash up, swearing that next time they were staying home. Thomas got out of them because he had the paper to worry about, and even then he’d gone on one or two, just in case. To justify the time, he;d written articles on the experience.

Gordon made a face and helped himself to a biscuit as the water heated. “Tully didn’t make us eat ‘em, ‘though he did let old Braceridge go on about ‘em, just in case we were ever stuck without rations. I’d have to be right starving to ever go through with it, though!” He peered at the chase Thomas was working on. “I miss anything?”

“Nothing big,” Thomas assured him, going back to his type. “The only thing new since you left is Morrow announcing that he and WIlberforce will be moving into the shepherd’s cottage.”

“About bloody time! How many years’ve him and Bill been stepping out?” There was a pause, then Gordon gave him a suspicious look and asked, “He want the cherubs again?”

“No, thankfully. _Apparently_ getting married is _less important_ than puppies.”

The younger man looked skeptical, but didn’t argue. “I ‘spose, least for those two.” He filled his mouth with biscuit and eyed the tea kettle thoughtfully. They’d slowly broken him of the habit of hoarding food, although it had taken the better part of five years, but he was still prone to devouring most of the paper’s biscuit supply. He swallowed and added, “And I guess it doesn’t matter, ‘s long as we don’t have to use the cherubs.” Thomas nodded agreement. Looking around, Gordon seemed to have just realized that they were the only two in the room. “Where’s everyone else, then?”

“Mr. Weston’s down with the flu, so Richard’s running the tailor shop, and Kit’s in meetings with Lord Hexham. Should be there for another hour or so” Thomas had deliberately waited until Kit was otherwise occupied to set Morrow’s wedding announcement. If he could manage it, with Gordon here, he’d print that entire page before he got back. Maybe that way he’d escape the inevitable question: _When is it your turn?_ Sometimes it was asked out loud, more frequently with a very expressive look, but it always left Thomas bristling for the rest of the day. _I don’t know, when is someone going to bloody ask me?_ He shot the last of the type into place just as the kettle started to whistle. “I’m done with this, though. Why don’t we have a cup and then start printing?”

Gordon shot him a curious glance as he poured the water into the tea pot to warm it. “Wot? Now? Why not wait for Kit?”

“And sit here and twiddling our thumbs for an hour or more?” Thomas countered, then shrugged. Setting aside the completed chase, he stood and walked over and helped himself to a biscuit. “Drink our entire supply of tea?”

Apparently deciding that the pot was warm enough, Gordon dumped out the water and added the tea leaves. “After the last couple ’a days, that sounds pretty awright.”

Thomas looked him over again. He’d not grown much since his arrival, although regular meals and work had bulked him out so he looked more respectable. Or at least he did when he shaved, which he had to do more regularly these days, although it could still take a couple of days for it to become necessary. Now, on top of the stubble, he had that sort of baggy eyed look that comes sleeping with rocks digging into your back for a night or two. “Why did you come here anyway? Why not get a drink with the others, or go get some proper shut eye?”

The younger man shrugged. “Dunno. Wanted to check in and see how you were gettin’ on here?” He paused, then added, “An’ I was gettin’ a bit sick of some of the company. Wanted a break.”

“Someone giving you a hard time?” Thomas asked, confused. It had taken awhile, of course, but over the years of training, Gordon had learned to get along fairly well with most of the RAMC lads. There might be a bit of ribbing now and again, but that was all in good fun, and Gordon could give as well as he could take.

“Naw, just gettin’ to be too many soppy couples is all,” Gordon shrugged, pouring the hot water over the leaves. “Can only stand so much listenin’ to ‘em go on ‘bout their wedded bliss.”

Thomas had never found the RAMC lot to be overly offensive in that area, unlike, say, the theater crew, but he could understand the sentiment. It got to him too, much the same as Kit’s looks. He was a bit surprised hearing it come from Gordon, though. For him there was a definite resentment at being the ‘old maid’ of his social circle. Kit and Richard had paired off about two years after Thomas’s arrival. One of the contractors who’d come to work on the cottages had taken up with Peter and convinced Dr. L. to let him move in over the tobacconist’s shop instead of shipping back to the mainland. Even Syl was off the market, not that Thomas was personally disgruntled about that one at all. It had actually been somewhat entertaining, watching Ernest Cole replace the “Get thee to a nunnery!” speech with a carefully penned wedding proposal. At least Thomas assumed he’d worked it out before hand. The thespian might have been able to improvise something in character, but in iambic pentameter as well? It didn’t seem likely. Either way, the rest of the acting troupe had pulled Father Timothy on stage and improvised an alternate ending where King Claudius was defeated and the newly weds lived happily ever after. 

(The new ending was not in proper meter, although a couple of the actors did try.)

Gordon, on the other hand, had never seemed at all interested in getting married. He’d quieted down on announcing he wasn’t a poof, although he’d found it necessary to enlighten some of the newer islanders to the fact a time or two, but there seemed no reason for him to be jealous. Quite the opposite. Thomas would have suspected a high number of married couples to make him feel it less likely someone would make a pass at him. In the end, though, it wasn’t really any of his concern. “Is that why you don’t want to get a move on with the printing?” he asked, not quite changing the subject. “Don’t want to read about another soppy couple, even in a proof?”

Rather than answer the question, Gordon wondered aloud, “Can Morrow be soppy when there aren’t puppies involved?”

“Maybe,” Thomas allowed. “But not in the paper. At least, not without the cherubs.” Wedding announcements in the Beacon followed a strict, well coded form. Normally it announced two of the residents moving in together, although there were a couple of other variations. Given that the code existed on the off chance a paper accidentally made it to the mainland, Thomas was generally pretty good about discouraging the cherubs. After all, how would it look to _normal_ people to have living arrangements announced by _cherubs_? A few individuals still refused to let it go, but most of them saw reason.

Pouring them each a cup of tea, Gordon asked, “Have you ever thought about it?” 

Thomas frowned, confused. “Thought about using the cherubs for an article?”

“Thought about getting married.” 

Thomas froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. Ironically, his first, gut impulse was to tell the younger man to fuck off, but that was Gordon’s line. Instead he shot him an utterly betrayed look and half spat, “Oh, not you too.” Really, he’d specifically chosen to set his type when Kit was gone so he wouldn’t have to talk about his love life! He was starting to sympathize with Lady Edith.

Pretty much anyone else on the island, at least in Thomas’s social group, would have backed off at that, or at the very least started making placating noises. Gordon just gave him a perplexed look and asked, “Wot? I was ‘jes curious. What with everyone wonderin’ why the best lookin’ bloke on the island ain’t been snatched up.” He shrugged. “Thought maybe you weren’t interested is all.”

Thomas supposed that was fair, especially coming from someone who barely liked being touched, forget being in a _relationship_. With a heart weary sigh, Thomas took a sip of his tea. “I’ve thought about it,” he admitted. “I’ve thought about it ever since I got here. And yes, I am interested, thank you. But if people want to know why I haven’t been snatched up, they should ask all of the people who _haven’t snatched me up_.”

Gordon thought about that, his brow creasing with the effort, and sipped his own tea. “You mean, no one’s asked you?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Thomas grumbled. “Or, if they have, they’ve _asked me_ to drinks at the pub or to walk with them to the library and then gotten offended when I went to the pub with someone else, or agreed to stop past the Jumble with them. And it’s all my fault it ended ‘cause I’m not a bloody mind reader.” The part that really made him want to scream was when people acted like he was doing it on purpose, as if he had designs on some mystery man and everyone had thought it was Richard or Kit or anyone, really, but they’d been proven wrong. He’d have married any of them, if he’d just known they were interested!

“Well,” Gordon frowned some more, unwrapping another biscuit and nibbling on it. “Why don’t you ask first, then? It ent as if it has to be the other bloke.”

Actually, Thomas thought, it did, but he wasn’t certain he was up to explaining that part. “I’ve not had much luck doing the asking,” he replied, walking back over to the work bench and shoving the completed chase out of the way. He pulled the one for page three in front of him and started working. He thought of the Duke, of the Turkish ambassador, of Jimmy. No, he did not have much luck asking and he was tired of being rejected. Having something for his hands to do gave him an excuse not to look at the younger man as he continued. “And I’m tired of being told no, or being lead on only to be dropped like a sack of mouldy potatoes. If the other fellow’s really that interested, I want _him_ to say it. That’s all.”

“Guess that makes sense.” There was some more chewing and a sip of tea, then, in a not-quite-offhand manner, the question, “Would you say yes if I asked?”

It was Thomas’s turn to frown, to turn, and give the younger man a look of utter confusion. He must have heard wrong. “What?”

Looking only marginally uncomfortable, Gordon shrugged his shoulders and repeated, “Would you say yes if I asked you to marry me?”

Thomas blinked. He ran the question through his head and blinked a couple more times. “I’d honestly never thought about it,” he admitted, still examining the prospect. It made as much sense as wondering if Mrs. Williams would say yes if he asked _her_. It was never going to happen, so why speculate? Or at least, he’d thought it was never going to happen. “Wouldn’t you want someone closer your own age? I’m better than ten years your senior.”

“You and most the island,” was the rebuttal. “And I’d sooner chew ground glass than marry Butler.”

Thomas winced at that. Will Butler was one of the newer inhabitants, about Gordon’s age, and they got along about as well as fire and gunpowder. There’d been joked made about starting up a police department in case one of them murdered the other, most of which were only half jest. “Fair point.” He turned the idea over a bit more. Truth was, he could see himself waking up next to the younger man. One advantage of living in dormitories with someone is that you got to see them first thing in the morning, when they weren’t their best. As such, he knew that Gordon kicked in his sleep and would probably steal the covers, but he wasn’t overly prone to loud snoring or drooling all over his pillow. And while the artists of the island weren’t exactly scrambling to paint his picture, he wasn’t unattractive, now he’d grown into his frame a bit more and learned to use a tooth brush. He actually had a rather nice smile, if you got right down to it. And really, it wasn’t that big an age difference. Lady Edith had been ready to marry a man as old as her father! Finally, with a bit of a shrug, Thomas said, “Alright, sure. If you asked me I would, hypothetically, say yes.”

Gordon scowled at that. “Hypothetically means not really.”

“It means we’re assuming you’d ask me,” Thomas countered, a bit surprised at how surly the younger man sounded. “You’ve not really asked.”

“Awright.” Still glaring, Gordon shoved the rest of his biscuit in his mouth, polished it off, took a healthy swig of tea, and asked, “Will you marry me?”

Absolutely flummoxed, Thomas stared at him for a good quarter minute before he even managed to blink. He realized, dimly, that in some corner of mind he’d thought the younger man had been asking because he fancied _someone else_ and was trying to bolster his confidence, or maybe that he was trying to get a feel for how picky Thomas really was. He’d not for a moment thought he was serious. “Really?” he asked, as much for something to say as anything.

Gordon jutted his jaw out in a show of defiance, but didn’t answer.

“What brought this on?”

“Ne’mind,” the younger man scowled, half slamming his teacup down on the table and stomping toward the door, shoving his hands in his pockets as he went.

“Hey, hang on a minute!” Thomas protested, scrambling to get up and beat Gordon to the door. He still had longer legs, and a place on the cricket team had kept him fit, so he managed, bringing the younger man up short. Gordon’s jaw jutted out further. It was, admittedly, more intimidating at twenty one than it had been at sixteen, but Thomas was so used to it that it had no impact. He was still somewhat surprised not to be told to fuck off. “I’m not saying ‘no’,” he clarified. “It’s just, I never thought you were interested, is all. Seeing as you ‘ain’t a fucking poof’.”

For a moment, Gordon held his ground. Then he sort of collapsed into himself, like a souffle. Not meeting Thomas’s eyes, he shrugged. “I dunno’. It’s jes…I get lonely is all. Even when there are other people around.” He shuffled his feet, eyes glued to the toes of his shoes. “And I listen to the married blokes, what are talking about how nice it is, waking up next to someone and having someone there when you’re feelin’ off. And it sounds nice. Never had no one what cared about me like that.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Apart from what he’d learned from Rouse, and what Gordon himself had made public knowledge, of course, Thomas still didn’t know much about the younger man. Who had taken care of him, when his mother was out working? How much older was his brother? Had they been close, before the older boy went to prison? What had he even been arrested for? Was it the same as Gordon, or something else, like theft? Of course, Thomas could sympathize, to a degree. It seemed his mum had only cared about them when they were ill, and his dad not at all. At least, he hadn’t cared about Thomas. “But why me? I know, you’ve said you’re not fond of the men closer your age, but I’m still not the only man on the island.”

“Well, no,” Gordon shifted uncomfortably. “But any of the others are goinna want…things.”

Hearing the man who had once asked point blank when they were going to get to the buggery in Group try to be _delicate_ was simultaneously amusing, sweet, and kind of pathetic. Deciding that they both needed more tea, Thomas shooed the younger man back to the tea pot and poured them each another cup. “If I get married, I’m going to want ‘things’ too,” he explained, as gently as he could. “I’m not getting married to live the life of a monk, thank you very much.”

“I know that.” It was actually somewhat heartening to see Gordon roll his eyes. “But you’re comfortable to be around, not pushy or anything. And you’re easy to look at. So maybe’d not mind?”

Thomas briefly wondered what sort of men had kept Gordon fed before he came to the island if ‘easy to look at’ was part of his criteria. He quickly shoved the question aside as unimportant. It wasn’t as important a point as ‘comfortable’ and ‘not pushy’. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to insist on Gordon, or any one, having it off with him if they weren’t in the mood. And he had no problems letting the other fellow take the lead, as it were, which would probably be appealing to someone with the younger man’s past. Still, as far as Thomas knew the island didn’t have a system for divorce, and that was a hell of a thing to be wrong about. “Are you sure you want to test that by getting _married_ , though?”

“How else are we s’posed to? The doctors won’t let us do anything _without_ getting married.”

“True, I suppose.” Thomas sighed and rubbed his temples. He understood Dr. L not wanting the asylum to become a ‘den of vice’. After all, they still had to deal with the mainland, and if Parliament decided they were just using it as an excuse to have orgies, none of them was going to fair well. He drank a bit more tea, having a good think about things, and finally hit on what felt like a reasonable compromise. “Tell you what,” he suggested, “The doctors aren’t going to let us get married tomorrow, even if I do say yes right now. They didn’t even let Ernest and Syl get away with skipping that part, even if they did proclaim the on stage wedding to have official standing when all else was said and done. So why don’t we start by stepping out a bit, officially, hm? Get a bit of a feel for how we’d work out, if we got married, and then I’ll give you an answer when we’re a bit more settled.”

Visibly relaxing, Gordon nodded and gave Thomas one of those surprisingly nice smiles. “Right. Makes sense.” 

With a smile of his own, Thomas reached out and, just as an experiment, ran the backs of his fingers down the younger man’s cheek. Gordon shifted a bit, his expression uncertain, but he didn’t quite pull away. Satisfied, Thomas decided not to push it. “I warn you, though,” he said, picking up his tea cup and going back to his work. “I’ve never stepped out with a man who wasn’t a fucking poof.”

Gordon scowled, but his lips kept trying to quirk up at the corners. “Fuck off.”

“Love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas wonders a bit about Gordon's childhood and some of it's long term effects. He's not a psychologist, so don't take his thoughts as expert commentary.


End file.
